For a long time, I believed survival was measured by how much a person could
endure.
I thought strength meant getting up the next morning, going to work,
taking care of my children, paying the bills, making dinner, and keeping the
machinery of ordinary life moving no matter what had happened behind closed
doors.
There is truth in that kind of strength. It carried me through years I did not
yet know how to name. But endurance is not the whole story.
This book is about what happened inside a life that could look ordinary from
the outside. There were vacations, concerts, Christmas mornings, work, friends,
laughter, and moments of genuine love. There was also fear. There were apologies
I did not understand, words I learned not to say, parts of myself I made smaller,
and violence I kept secret.